


to have + hold

by neroh



Series: in sin + error [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, M/M, Slight mention of Kingsman, references to 9/11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 07:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11754999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: Not a lot surprises Napoleon Solo because heisNapoleon Solo, after all.





	to have + hold

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Bre for the beta and just being amazing! Also thank you to Mo, Leah, Matt, and henricavill for waving those pomp-pomps!
> 
> And holy moly! This is my 50th fic on AO3! How did that happen? 
> 
> The references to September 11th have been as vague as I could make them as I didn't want to offend anyone who was directly involved or lost a loved one.

Not a lot surprises Napoleon Solo because he _is_ Napoleon Solo, after all.

It’s the nature of the business he’s in—espionage—and usually, he’s the one doing the surprising. Seldom does Napoleon get the rug pulled from out of him or the wool over his eyes and when it does happen, he rather dislikes it.

Take for instance, the first time he met Illya. He hadn’t exactly planned on coming face-to-face with a real life Adonis or engaging in fisticuffs with him. Or saving his life.

Or sleeping with him.

Or falling stupidly, grossly, sickeningly head over heels in love with him.

Nevermind. Illya is a terrible example.

The point is that Napoleon doesn’t like surprises, but he also can’t bring himself to regret the moment he first laid eyes on his boyfriend. Even when Illya is being incredibly stubborn and sarcastic or he’s using the wrong pan to cook with or hogging all of the sheets, Napoleon just _really fucking loves_ him.

It’s the type of love that movies wish they would have thought of because spies saving the day and having amazing sex in equally amazing (and not so amazing) locations? Box office gold!

Alternatively, it’s what poets rhymed about, singers sang songs about, and so on.

Every time Napoleon glances over at Illya, he can’t help but fall in love all over again. It’s tooth-rotting fluff and sickeningly sweet and he _knows_ it.

And good God, when did he become this person?

These _feelings_ surprise him, and Napoleon Solo isn’t one for feelings. Or, at least, he wasn’t, having avoided them like the plague or an enemy’s firearm. Napoleon kept them under lock and key, tucked away— _far_ away—from where someone could find them.

All it took was one look into Illya’s sea-blue eyes on a yacht in the middle of the choppy Mediterranean to _undo_ him. The painstaking years he spent putting up walls and committing himself to his devil-may-care facade gone. Obliterated. His dignity vanished and dammit, Napoleon isn’t sorry.

Just like he isn’t sorry for being Illya’s makeshift pillow on their way back to the hotel.

After spending a rather emotional day at the Kingsman mansion in Hertfordshire, his boyfriend’s impromptu nap doesn’t surprise. Napoleon happily massages Illya’s scalp as the cab drives them through the heart of London and listens to the rain tapping against the windows. Soon they’ll be back in their suite where they can lie down and Napoleon can shove away the cold feeling of dread looming his stomach.

It starts off with a benign comment about the date as Illya’s grandparents discuss plans for a lunch the day after next. Flora and Richard are eager to show their long-lost grandson family photographs as they get to know him and Napoleon better in the privacy of their own home in London. As Flora checks her Kingsman-issued mobile for any scheduling conflicts, her husband leans over and chuckles.

“Darling, tomorrow isn’t the tenth,” Richard says in fondness and admiration as he wraps an arm around her shoulders.

With a frustrated huff, Flora shakes her head. “Already the middle of bloody September!” She glances up from the device with the same blue eyes she shares with Illya. “Next thing you know, the year will be over and I’ll be behind on my holiday shopping as always.”

Laughter fills the room, but it doesn’t matter to Napoleon. From the very second his mind jumps from the tenth to the eleventh, his world narrows to a pinprick. His vision goes black save for a speck that may or may not be the light reflecting off Illya’s watch. The tips of his fingers tingle with cold while panic roils at his throat, threatening to spit out a terrible scream.

Like the one he withheld on the day his parents died until he left the Student Union for fresh air. He remembers it being packed with Napoleon’s classmates as they watched the towers fall on the television screens. He pushed his way out, stumbling through a sea of stunned and horrified people until he was on the lawn, and he couldn’t _breathe_.

But he could scream. He could scream until his throat burned and his face was soaked with tears. He could scream until someone—a professor, maybe—grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to calm him down.

Napoleon could scream and scream all he wanted, with all those people watching, but it didn’t change that his parents were dead. Even the pressure of his cell phone from his squeezing couldn’t stop him.

The pressure builds around his palm, extending through his hands when he realizes Illya was trying to get his attention. Illya is _holding_ his hand.

Or perhaps it’s his voice that brings Napoleon back. “Cowboy,” he asks, uncertain. “Are you alright?”

Napoleon blinks, staring blankly at Illya before catching himself. He forces a smile to alleviate the worry on his boyfriend’s face because _he’s_ supposed to be the strong one today. Today he protects Illya as he meets his grandparents. “I’m fine, Peril.”

Illya raises a brow but says no more.

He doesn’t say anything when they get into the Kingsman cab after saying their goodbyes; Illya tucks his head under Napoleon’s chin and closes his eyes. The ride back to the hotel is mercifully silent and Napoleon can pretend that his false cheer has nullified his boyfriend’s concern.

Except he knows it hasn’t. Over the last year or so, they've come to understand each other beyond words or fisticuffs.

Illya won’t broach the subject until Napoleon leads them down that path because he, too, knows what it’s like to lose his parents. Not once, but twice now.

Napoleon wonders if the second time in a villa outside of Rome hurt as much as the first, not that he’ll ask. He’s just glad that he’ll have tomorrow to mourn his parents before he has to charm Illya’s grandparents the day after.

The cab comes to a halt outside the double doors leading into the hotel lobby. “Sirs,” the driver says, glancing at them through the rearview mirror. “We have arrived.”

Napoleon nods in thanks as he nudges Illya in his side. “Peril,” he whispers. Illya grunts in sleepy reply. “Time to wake up.” He watches his boyfriend lift his head, yawning as he realizes where they are and thinks _damn, how did I get so lucky_?

He shouldn’t be so lucky with all of the things he’s done, but he is and Napoleon is perfectly fine with that.

 

* * *

 

Their evening starts out surprisingly uneventful.

It doesn’t surprise Napoleon that Illya strips down to his underwear and climbs into bed for a nap or that he’s following behind him, picking up his discarded clothing. He takes a moment to appreciate Illya’s sleep soft face before kissing his forehead and deciding to join him.

The very second his body touches the mattress, Illya lifts his arm for Napoleon to crawl under.

“If only your enemies knew what a softy you are,” Napoleon mutters as he makes himself comfortable alongside his boyfriend.

Illya makes a disgruntled sound. “I am not soft,” he mumbles. “I am Russian; too cold-hearted to be soft.”

“I disagree,” Napoleon tells him, because he does.

Their first impressions of each other were, well, pretty terrible. Napoleon thought Illya was trying to kill him— which he might have been, he’s not too certain—and Illya was angry that Napoleon was thwarting his quest to find out who killed his mother.

Then there was their formal introduction, in which Illya gave Napoleon a spectacular black eye.

So, _yes_ , there was a time that Napoleon thought Illya was the most Russian of all the Russians he ever encountered and could make diamonds inside his ass with how anal retentive he was. And still _is_.

But he knows better now; Illya reveals bits of himself like layers, and at the center of him is quite possibly the most amazing person Napoleon has ever come across.

And he’s his and Napoleon is Illya’s and he still can’t believe it.

“I will deny any knowledge,” Illya deadpans solemnly.

Napoleon snorts into warm skin and the scent of bergamot from Illya’s cologne. He stays there, inhaling and exhaling and marveling at the way their bodies fit together so perfectly. Every curve, every ridge of muscle, _everything_ just _works_ and…fuck, Napoleon’s in deep. He slides a hand down his stomach to where Illya’s rests over his belly button and laces their fingers together.

Illya hums as he tucks his head under Napoleon’s and Napoleon swears he can feel the smirk on the other man’s lips.

Beyond the muffled sounds outside their hotel suite’s windows and the rain splattering against them and back inside where they drift off, Napoleon can forget the panic grappling at him. He can fall asleep pressed against Illya and just not think about it…

Except the memories of that day come for him and infiltrate the good dreams with pockets of darkness until they wholly consume them.

It’s like a chronic illness or disease. The trauma flares up, exploding with the same aggression Napoleon’s seen with some of the unsavory characters he’s been unfortunate enough to meet before tapering off when it’s done wreaking havoc. Dealing with it never gets easier and he’s done everything he can do to deal with it.

Therapy, benders that end with blackouts and bruises he doesn’t recall getting, sex with strangers, visits to his parents’ empty graves, sequestering himself in his apartment and sleeping until the day is over and he can be himself again.

There was that one time, long before Illya came crashing into his life, he and Gaby waited for their next move on an assignment in a tiny flat in Valletta. One of their first, he recalls. With her stern tone and equally annoyed expression, Gaby asked him what was wrong. In retrospect, he thinks she might have thought that he didn’t approve of having a female partner because, well, some men are assholes.

“My parents died thirteen years ago today,” Napoleon replied.

Gaby, wonderful and amazing _Gaby_ , didn’t throw her arms around him and offer her condolences. With a quick nod, she spun on the heel of her bare feet and went into the kitchen, only to back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

They spent the night drinking in silence, probably one of the better outcomes he’s had, and gave Gaby a better understanding of her partner.

Except Gaby isn’t here and Napoleon is dreaming of Illya and the freckles on his shoulders. It’s nothing terribly provocative; actually, it’s pretty innocent for Napoleon. They’re on a nameless beach, blissfully alone as the sun warms their skin, and all Napoleon can do is trace invisible lines while Illya lies on his stomach. He’s smiling like the cat who ate the canary or found the cream or just a man enjoying the attention.

Napoleon leans closer to kiss him when a shadowy figure on his peripheral causes him to do a double-take. Fuzzy moments pass as his mind tries to recognize the interloper’s face while appreciating the delicacy making up their features. Like a woman’s profile etched into the ivory of a cameo surrounded by wavy dark blonde hair swept up in an elegant chignon.

Her pleasant, unaffected smile sends a jolt of realization through Napoleon and he thinks _mom_ because it’s _her_ and she’s standing in front of them wearing clothes not appropriate for a beach—a stylish pantsuit with a ruffled cream blouse. Martine Gagnon-Solo is as alive as Napoleon remembers her being, then she’s gone as quickly as she appeared.

Dreams are fluid in the passage of time and space, shifting and molding into scenes and worlds—icy fields in Finland, busy streetscapes in Japan, the Mossy Forest of Malaysia.

His father appears in the forest where he ducks between the lush trees, only for Napoleon to catch a glimpse of his tall, long frame or wisps of his salt and pepper hair. John Solo wears his neat pinstriped suit and chuckles warmly as he traipses around his son, fading with the scenery. The echo of his laughter remains, the sound becoming tinny and punctuated by static until…

…Napoleon glances down at his hand, finding his old Nokia there. He blinks, surprised to find the cell phone after ripping the old voicemails his parents left him and throwing it away years ago. Aged linoleum brushes against the soles of his feet, sending a shiver down Napoleon’s spine.

Lifting his gaze, NYU’s Student Union surrounds Napoleon. It’s a place he hasn’t set foot in since that day, having dropped out weeks after his parents’ funeral and joining the Army. Something about being there, being on campus, being in such close proximity to the World Trade Center made Napoleon heartsick.

“Napoleon,” his father calls through the Nokia’s speaker. “Napoleon, are you there?”

Shaking, he brings the cell phone to his ear. “Dad?” he croaks.

“I don’t want you to worry, but there’s been an accident here,” John tells him calmly. “I’m going to find your mother.”

Napoleon swallows; he remembers this conversation. The last one he had with his father before he hung up and went to search for his mother. For years, Napoleon wondered if his father would have survived if he hadn’t gone to find her. If he would only lose one parent, instead of two. “Dad,” he says, finding his nerve. “Dad, get out! Find mom later.”

“We’ll call you as soon as we’re safe, okay?”

“No Dad, _listen_ to _me_!” Napoleon demands. His entire body shakes as he rushes to the windows in the direction of the towers. He doesn’t remember having such a clear view of them before. He doesn’t remember the fire and smoke being so close, so dense. “Don’t find her! Get out of the building before it collapses, please. Get out!”

His father can’t hear his pleas. “I love you,” he says.

Napoleon shakes his head as fire and smoke consume the tower. “Dad, no! _Dad_!”

The structure begins to collapse upon itself when a hand grabs him, yanking Napoleon out of the dream with a scream on his tongue. Waking him causes it to shake loose, piercing the air and filling it with his agony. It destroys his throat, obliterates the growing ache in his chest…and oh God, he can’t breathe!

Exploding and exploding until—

“ _Cowboy_!” It sounds like Illya. He sounds worried. “ _Napoleon_!”

He opens his eyes to Illya’s panicked face. Shadows from the bedside lamp deepen his expression.

“Peril?” Napoleon whispers with uncertainty.

Illya’s throat bobs as he nods. “ _Da_ ,” he says without thinking. “It’s me.” His hands rest on Napoleon’s shoulders, warm and comforting against the material of his undershirt. Behind him lies a scene of tangled sheets and pillows strewn across the floor of the hotel suite. “Cowboy?”

He flinches at the softness of Illya’s tone, setting off a domino effect. Tears burn Napoleon’s eyes, watering uncontrollably until they’re falling down his cheeks and, _holy shit_ , he’s sobbing. He’s shaking and hysterical and he can’t stop.

His world tilts as Illya pulls Napoleon towards him where coarse chest hair tickles his cheek. Soon it will be wet with his tears, not that he’s conscious of it. Napoleon hiccups between sobs, allowing Illya to wrap him up in his arms and hold him close.

“ _Doushenkyi_ ,” Illya whispers into his hair, fingers curling against the back of his neck. Calloused skin caressing him, offering comfort and support as he falls apart. A strange juxtaposition of a man who seems to be pure brawn under an icy, impenetrable exterior. “ _Vse normal’no_. I am here.”

Napoleon sobs and mourns his losses and breathes Illya in as his lover’s deep rumble continues murmuring into his ear.

 

* * *

 

Here’s the thing: Napoleon isn’t embarrassed by displays of emotion, and it takes a lot to embarrass him.

He’s only quiet as he lies in Illya’s arms while his hand idly pets his hair because he’s _wrung the fuck out_. Every inch of Napoleon aches—or in the case of his throat, burns from throwing up finger sandwiches he ate at the Kingsman mansion, which _never_ again—and he’s just exhausted. Like he’s sick, nearly feverish with grief from a day long past.

Vague memories of the days following his parents’ deaths come to mind, as Napoleon stumbled through arranging for empty caskets to be buried under a headstone bearing their names and thinking he’s far too young to be doing this. He hadn’t had his parents for long enough for this to be happening. For their house to be filled with friends and family while he sat numbly on the settee his mother loved so dearly. For people, many of whom he didn’t know, to offer their condolences and a tight smile as Napoleon bobbed his head, only pretending to hear them. For white flowers to surround a recent photograph of all three of them in Cape Cod, taken several months—perhaps _weeks_ — earlier as they smiled for the camera.

“Do you want to talk?” Illya asks. His voice is too soft, too gentle. It should be Napoleon tending to his needs rather than the other way around; they’re in London for him, after all.

He shrugs. “What’s there to say?” Napoleon replies. “In a few hours, it will be sixteen years since my parents…” The words die on his tongue as a hard, horrible lump forms in his throat and his eyes burn. Tears slip from their corners and Napoleon turns to press his face in the crevice of Illya’s armpit. He hides there until he can speak again. “There’s nothing to say,” he whispers, readjusting his head on Illya’s shoulder.

Illya’s arms tighten around him like a cocoon. “I’m sorry, Cowboy.” A calloused hand caresses his wet cheek to brush tears away. Illya’s fingers don’t stop to trace the dried up tracks, though he buries his nose in Napoleon’s hair and inhales.

It’s times like this where the absolute certainty of how much Napoleon loves Illya and everything he’s made of crashes into him and leaves him flabbergasted. How such a stubborn, hot-tempered, Goliath of a man could be so unassuming with his affections and soft and perfect.

“Why?” he croaks, sniffling as he lifts his head. Napoleon has no qualms of Illya seeing him like this; he’s been in far worse shape before. “We’re here for you and I’m just…”

…being the center of attention and he doesn’t want to be. Guilt from earlier settles into his bones; Illya needs him to stay strong, not to fall apart. He doesn’t need to be picking him off the floor and coddling him like some overgrown child.

“ _Nyet_ ,” Illya says sternly. His eyes burn darker when Illya’s in a mood or being incredibly hard-headed with that stubbornness that simultaneously drives Napoleon completely crazy and mad with desire. “We are team. We are here for each other, yes?”

Napoleon wrinkles his nose. “Yes, but-”

“No buts,” Illya demands. “We _are_ team.” He straightens his neck, clearing his throat as his cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. “Partners and lovers, yes?”

“Well, obviously. I would hate to share you with someone else,” Napoleon tells him, trying to lighten the mood.

Illya glares at him.

“What? Peril,” he says, feigning innocence. “I’m just speaking the truth!”

“You are trying to change subject,” Illya replies, still glaring while his lips twitch. “I know you better than you, Cowboy.”

“Than yourself,” Napoleon corrects. “And I resent that statement. I know myself quite well; I have over thirty years of experience…”

Tilting his head, Illya gazes at him with those blue, _so blue_ , eyes and smirks. “I _know_ you,” he gently insists as his large fingers form a circle around Napoleon’s wrist and tugs.

He goes willingly because it’s Illya and he wants to be wrapped up in his sphere where he body is warm and smells of bergamot with a hint of vanilla. Napoleon sighs when they kiss, thinking how strange it is that Illya’s lips are the only soft part of him; the only part that isn’t calloused or scarred.

He falls into it; into Illya’s taste, into his arms, into the safety he provides when Napoleon needs it most. Only four months ago, they laid in another bed in another hotel as Napoleon did the very same for Illya. It’s so natural for them to give and take, so easy to fall into a relationship…so easy to fall.

“Cowboy,” Illya intones, palm flat against Napoleon’s nape.

He must have dozed off, Napoleon thinks as he tries to blink his heavy eyelids. Illya chuckles as he shifts their bodies to a more comfortable position since Napoleon seems to be lying on top of him.

“ _Doushenkyi_ ,” Illya says, “sleep now.”

The last thing he remembers is wondering what _doushenkyi_ means and thinking he should probably ask Illya in the morning.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t dream of his parents, but of his time in the Army.

Napoleon joined mostly because he was angry at losing his parents and he was angry at the world for allowing it to happen. But mostly because the idea of going back to NYU, where people would certainly stare, made him feel ill. So he marched over to the nearest enlistment office and filled out the forms; a few weeks later he made the acquaintance of Drill Sergeant Robert Drake.

The same man who would haul Napoleon’s bruised and hungover ass into his office every eleventh of September and give him _that_ look —the one where he had no idea what to do with such an angry, hurting kid— and sigh, resigned.

He knew that Bob thought he had him pegged from the moment Napoleon stepped off the bus at Basic. He took one look at this college dropout from Long Island and whistled shrilly. “Hey, Pretty Boy,” the drill sergeant barked at him, much to the amusement of his colleagues. “Brave of you coming here. Might mess up that face of yours!”

Napoleon rolled his eyes and followed the rest of trainees as Drake hooted with laughter. _Schmuck_ , he thought as he dug his fingers into the strap of his duffle bag. He decided right then and there that Robert Drake would be the victim of his first con.

He was going to prove this asshole wrong.

As luck would have it, Napoleon got to do that within an hour of meeting him. Standing stock still in a line of recruits with his duffle bag of his worldly possessions at his feet, he braced himself as good ol’ Bob shout-spit-screamed, “And what about _you_ , Pretty Boy? Why are you here?”

In under ten words, Napoleon Solo managed to wipe the sneer off Drill Sergeant Drake’s face. “My parents were in the North Tower, sir!” He recalls everyone in the line daring to look at him—he could feel their stares— but none of it mattered.

Drake, all solemn and remorseful, nodded at him. He didn’t need to explain that they were dead and the caskets he buried were empty; Bob knew. He went to the next person and resumed terrorizing the new recruits.

Not that his misfortune gave Napoleon a free ride through Basic. No—he busted his ass just like everyone else. Scrubbed the floor with a toothbrush, ran through the course in the rain with a thirty-pound rucksack on his back, crawled through mud, climbed up ropes with bloodied palms, and ached every night he fell onto his bunk bed in complete exhaustion.

At the end, Napoleon left Basic Training as a Private First Class and went to Afghanistan for two tours.

Two tours under blistering heat and bone-chilling cold. Two tours with a team of men and women who became fixtures in Napoleon’s life. Two tours under Robert Drake’s command, a man whom he respected and let in more than anyone else since his parents died.

Two tours with luck on his side until snipers ambushed his unit and Napoleon earned his first visible scar. He was rushing them to safety when the bullet struck him in the shoulder—ripping through skin, muscle, and bone— and sent him to the dusty ground where his blood ran freely in the dirt. Napoleon doesn’t remember much after the explosion of pain and the sound of his own scream, but he would later learn that Drake went back for him when he should have stayed under cover.

Robert Drake, who thought Napoleon was just a pretty face, bodily dragged him back to safety and pressed his jacket over the gushing wound all the way to the field hospital. The man who was at Napoleon’s bedside when he woke up a few days later, delirious with pain medication and confused as hell.

The same Robert Drake who introduced Napoleon to Mr. Sanders and opportunities with the CIA, sending him on the path to Illya.

That’s where his dream ends; with Illya taking Napoleon’s hand and him falling into a deep, restful sleep.

 

* * *

 

Waking up on the eleventh hurts less than it used to.

As Napoleon breaks through the barrier of consciousness he feels a dull ache in his chest, one of Illya’s legs between both of his, a bicep under his cheek, and Illya’s quiet snores tickling his hair.

Typically, he greets this day with a stabbing pain forming in the center of his head from too much drinking and right over his heart from loss and he’s alone. It doesn’t get much better from there and usually involves being hunched over the toilet bowl for several hours before dragging his sorry ass out to the kitchen to make some toast.

It’s a miserable one filled with moping, shedding a few tears, looking at old family photographs, and holing himself up in his room where he sleeps away the remaining hours. There are the few times he’s gone out to get into a fight and returns home with a bloodied nose, busted lip, or black eye. On one memorable occasion, or not so memorable thanks to blacking out, Napoleon managed all three.

Now…well, it still hurts, but not as much as it used to.

He suspects he has Illya to thank for that. His steadfast partner comprised of six feet and five inches of solid muscle and brute strength, born in the iciest of nations and FSB trained. The gentlest of giants and the only person walking this earth who holds Napoleon’s heart in his hands. Illya is stunningly beautiful and Napoleon can’t believe he’s _his_.

Turning over to face Illya, Napoleon catches him wrinkling his nose like a little boy. Sleep softens his boyfriend, reminding him that they are still young men with their lives stretched out in front of them. He reaches out, touching the angular curves of Illya’s jaw and brushes his fingers over it as he admires him.

Not many get to see this side of him. Illya showed Gaby first, much to Napoleon’s chagrin. It made him jealous when Illya so much as _smiled_ at her because their friendship was an easy, natural thing while he treated Napoleon with a mix of disdain and desire.

It’s no wonder that when it _did_ reveal itself to Napoleon, it threw him off his axis. Illya has a tendency to do that.

He wakes Illya an hour later, having tired of lying in bed with nothing to do. They enjoy a quiet brunch at a cafe a few blocks away from the hotel—the only one not showing any anniversary coverage on the television—before venturing to Tate Modern. Napoleon enjoys the Fahrelnissa Zeid exhibition and the colorful images from her Abstract and Expressionism periods while holding Illya’s hand.

They’re standing in front of _Break of the Atom and Vegetal Life_ when he catches a fond smile brightening Illya’s face. “What?” Napoleon asks, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze.

“I like watching you,” Illya replies, leaning into him. His lips brush against Napoleon’s hairline. “In this place. It comforts you, _da_?”

Napoleon nods, glancing around the exhibition hall. “My mom used to take me to museums when I was younger,” he explains as his eyes find Illya’s once more. “We’d take the train in from Long Island and spend the day in Manhattan touring MOMA, the Guggenheim, the Cloisters. She would hold my hand while we walked around and tell me about the painters.”

“Sounds familiar,” Illya says.

He looks down at their entwined hands and chuckles. “What can I say? Chip off the old block.”

“Was she an artist?”

“She studied it. In Québec—that’s where she was from.”

Illya tilts his head, his eyes filled with curiosity. “Is that where she met your father?”

“Oh, no,” Napoleon laughs, ruefully. “They met in Manhattan; he took her egg salad sandwich on accident and offered to take her to a deli that made the best on the island. The rest is history, so they say…” He blinks away tears as he presses his lips together to keep them from wobbling. “When they found out about me, they had gone to see an exhibit of Napoleon Orda sketches. That’s how I got my name.”

“I thought you were named for Bonaparte,” Illya says, sounding surprised. He doesn’t blame him; the people who know the story usually are. Not many people, but enough for make Napoleon chuckle.

He shakes his head. “God no! Mom thought he was a megalomaniac who wrought greater misery than any man before Hitler.” Napoleon dabs his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “Why does it _still_ hurt to talk about them? You’d think that after sixteen years…it would be… ”

“Death is not easy, Cowboy,” Illya whispers, pulling Napoleon into an embrace. He goes into it without protest, allowing his body to be wrapped up in a pair of arms meant to keep him safe. Napoleon hides his face in the hollow of Illya’s neck and _breathes_. He really ought to ask what cologne Illya is wearing. “And he invaded Russia,” Illya notes, sounding annoyed.

Napoleon makes a face and pulls back, seeing the annoyed scowl on the other man’s face. “Who did?”

“Bonaparte,” Illya says.

“Well, your people also torched Moscow so he’d leave,” Napoleon notes.

“We did not want filth in our land,” his boyfriend replies, as if this explains Russian military tactics. “I am glad you are not named for _him_. Would be embarrassing.”

He snorts. “Oh would it now?” Napoleon asks as he leans closer. “Would it offend your Russian sensibilities, Peril?”

“Russian _and_ English,” Illya retorts.

Napoleon shrugs; Illya’s mouth holds his attention more than a debate about a historical figure. He imagines how they look after kissing them, after his cock’s been between them, and brushes his lips over Illya’s. They are soft and warm and slick from Napoleon’s tongue. He licks his way inside as he cups his boyfriend’s neck, letting the sounds of the museum fade away until it’s only _them_ and _this_.

Someone bumps Napoleon’s shoulder, perhaps, minutes or hours later. They mutter a quick apology and dart off before either of them can say a word. “Cock blocker,” Napoleon grouses.

“Probably did it on purpose,” Illya agrees, rubbing his hands up Napoleon’s back. “Probably _French_.”

Napoleon bites his lips to keep from laughing out loud. “Tell me how you _really_ feel,” he teases.

“French lose wars and they have terrible poetry,” Illya continues in all seriousness. “They did not know love, either. Cannot keep their pants in.”

“Keep it in their pants,” Napoleon corrects with a grin and thinks how adorable it is when Illya mixes up his phrasing. “Do you want to see the rest of the exhibit?”

Illya nods. “Da, but only if we return for _Red Star over Russia_.”

“Only if you tell me what _doushenkyi_ means,” Napoleon replies, raising a brow when Illya does. “Peril…”

A flush crawls up Illya’s neck to his cheeks as he clears his throat. “Means my soul,” he says quietly and Napoleon swears his heart has swelled up in his chest, close to bursting. It’s the closest Illya’s come to saying those three words, not that he wants to rush him, but _damn_. Damn! If they weren’t in a public place, he’d probably blow him.

“Meant only for special people,” Illya adds. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes because, if anything, Illya Kuryakin _is_ predictable and he _is_ Napoleon Solo after all. He tugs on the belt loops of his boyfriend’s trousers, pulling him closer and smiles up at him. “I’ll try not to.”

(He does.)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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